Murder by Misrule

  ***

  Tom and Trumpet took the shortcut back to Gray's. By mutual unspoken consent, they turned west to detour around the spot where the Fleming had died. They would walk up past the duck pond and enter Gray's from the north.

  They rounded a dense thicket of hazel and were surprised by a lad about Tom's size, who planted himself in the middle of their path and confronted them with his hands on his hips.

  "What have we here? Purpoole's Captain of the Guard and Master Intelligencer strolling along, all by their lonesomes, without any retinue? What d'ye say, lads? Shall we take 'em?"

  Three other men emerged from the thicket. "They'll fetch a pretty ransom," one said.

  "Lincoln's men," Trumpet snarled. Lincoln's Inn stood south of Gray's on the other side of Holborn. The rivalry between the two Inns of Court was centuries old and fiercely maintained. Its members rarely ventured this far into enemy territory. "A flock of prancing coxcombs. We don't have time for this."

  Tom wasn't so sure. He found the prospect of a good brawl agreeable in the extreme. He'd thrash these beef-witted dewberries inside out. He'd stand them on their heads and then he'd kick their bilious backsides black and blue and send them yelping back to their own hall.

  He grinned at them, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

  "I'll take the knave in the middle," Trumpet muttered out of one side of his mouth.

  "Good," Tom said. "I'll take the rest of them."

  He waded into the fray with gusto, laying about him with his long arms and his heavy fists. All of the fear and lust and frustration of the past few days boiled into his veins, filling him with a scalding exaltation of battle glory. He soon sent his would-be assailants scurrying for the safety of their own Inn.

  Only one left. He grabbed the knave from behind and lifted him right up over his head. Someone was shouting, "Tom! Stop!" but he ignored the quibbling naysayer. He twirled twice around with his enemy wriggling helplessly in his mighty hands and threw the dastard full length into the duck pond.

  He laughed as he watched the puny minnow floundering through the lily pads. He laughed louder as the measle slipped and fell back into the mud on his little round rump. Then his eye was caught by something furry floating toward the bank.

  Not a rat. Certainly not a duck. It looked like a serjeant's coif made of hair. Curious, he stepped gingerly to the edge of the pond and fished it out.

  "What ho! It's a wig! And a funny sort of a moustachio too." He held them up. "Trumpet, look what I found!"

  He looked behind him. No Trumpet. He looked at the wig in his hand. Trumpet-colored hair.

  A disturbing thought crept into his mind. He turned slowly back to watch the varlet floundering in the pond. His eyes were open, he knew he was awake, and yet he could not be seeing what he saw. He took a few steps closer, his feet moving unbidden into the water.

  There, kneeling among the lily pads, draped in long green strands of pond scum, was a beautiful, soaking wet, raven-haired girl with fury flashing in her emerald eyes.

  Tom was gobsmacked. His legs turned to jelly and he sank backward onto his rump in the mud.

  "God's light, Trumpet." His voice sounded hollow in his ears. "You're a girl."